I recently wrote about why it’s useful for your protagonist to be a loser sometimes, and how it’s important to burn down everything they’ve achieved at the worst possible moment.
Think of this as the third part in the unofficial “screw your protagonist” trilogy.
We’re going to talk about conflict.
Conflict is the fuel that runs your story’s engine. Without it, your story won’t go forward.
It’s probably the most fundamental and most misunderstood aspect of storytelling.
You probably know what conflict is in strict terms. Your character wants something. They come upon an obstacle in their way. That obstacle creates conflict.
But there’s more to it than that. One thing that can often go overlooked is that conflict has to cost your character something.
Whenever your character confronts conflict, they have to pay a toll before being able to move on.
Often that cost comes in the form of:
not getting what they set out to achieve.
sacrificing something in order to achieve their goal.
Rather than thinking about your protagonist coming up against an obstacle, it can be useful to think of conflict as opposite goals colliding. Your protagonist has a goal. Whoever they’re up against has their own opposing goal. They can’t both get what they want.
It’s like two toy cars powering towards each other. They both want to continue straight, but when they smash together they each fly off in an unexpected direction.
If your protagonist always continues straight, throwing everything out of their way, you’re creating false, fabricated conflict. You can get away with a little bit of that, but too much and your whole story starts to feel flimsy and repetitive and kind of pointless.
As I found when I had my protagonist “win” every scene a few weeks back.
This is what most unseasoned writers get wrong. Because this paradigm of conflict isn’t really how we approach stories when we set out to write them.
When we come up with a great idea, we don’t think about how much our character needs to be thrown off-course by the conflicts they encounter.
We take our badass MI6 spy, or our charming misfit, or our unconventional sports coach, and we chart their steady march towards victory.
We might throw obstacles in their way, but those obstacles only serve to highlight how badass // charming // unconventional our character is in overcoming them.
What we tend not to do is orchestrate the complete and utter derailment of their plans. How everything they try to do goes kind of wrong. How each conflict costs them dearly.
But this is what makes great conflict. And by extension great stories.
Basically, after pretty much every scene your protagonist should be able to say, “that didn’t work out how I’d hoped.”
I’ll give an example below. But first I want to go a little bit deeper how to enhance the conflict in your script.
I promised you three rings.
Think of them as concentric circles - a topographical map of aggro emanating out from your character.
Working outwards-to-inwards, they are:
Environmental conflict
This is any conflict that can’t be reasoned with. Anything that can only be physically overcome or evaded altogether.
A tall fence; a rabid dog; an arid desert; a SWAT team.
It might feel weird to give a tall fence a goal. But think of it this way, that fence’s entire reason for existing is to keep people out. If someone scales it, that fence has failed at its one job in life. Tough break for the fence.
Personal conflict
This is the most prevalent; the most instantly recognisable. Your character comes up against something that can in principle be reasoned with.
A person; a sassy talking cat; a sentient robot.
This could manifest as an argument. But also debate, rhetoric, persuasion, negotiation, manipulation, intimidation, flirtation, needling, pitching, begging, bribery, blackmail, browbeating, flattery, the silent treatment…basically any means by which one person might attempt to get what they want from another person.
Internal conflict
This conflict happens inside your character. In their mind, their heart, their gut. They want something, but their innate values, fears, or an equal and opposite goal are pushing them towards a different action.
“I want to steal all that orphanage donation money; but I also want the orphans to get their new swing set.” Or: “I want to stay late at the office to close this mega-deal; but I also want to prove to my daughter I can keep my promises.”
This is the hardest to depict in a script. It needs to be constructed carefully throughout the preceding scenes so that the reader interprets a moment as representing internal conflict. But it can also add the most depth, nuance, and complexity. So it’s worth aiming for.
You don’t need all three in every scene. Although incorporating all three could help make a good scene great.
I would say a successful script needs engage all three rings at some point in the story. Think about what might be missing in your script.
Does your protagonist face a physical obstacle that can only be overcome or evaded?
Do they have an internal dilemma that pulls them in different directions?
Do they face someone with an equal and opposite goal?
The Dark Knight - nothing ever seems to go right for that guy
Considering all the above, my mind goes back to a sequence in fanboy favourite The Dark Knight.
During an angsty interrogation scene, the Joker sets Batman a terrible conundrum.
He’s taken two hostages: District Attorney (and Gotham hero) Harvey Dent, and Bruce’s love interest (and Harvey’s fiancée) Rachel Dawes. Both are hooked up to explosives in different locations across the city. Only one can be reached in time.
Batman chooses Rachel, only to discover the Joker tricked him and sent him to Harvey.
Rachel is killed. Harvey is enraged that Batman “chose” to save him, gets mutilated in the explosion, and turns villainous.
On top of all this, the Joker has used the distraction to spring himself out of jail.
It literally couldn’t have gone worse.
And this is Batman we’re talking about. He usually has a handle on things.
The sequence is a perfect example of how at every turn, and despite Batman’s best efforts, the conflict he comes up against throws him completely off course.
His goal of ending the Joker’s reign of terror seems further away than ever. The toll he’s paid for coming into close personal conflict with the Joker is tremendous.
Now lets apply the three rings of conflict:
Environmental - Batman can only be in one place at one time. And he has to get there fast. Despite his best efforts, Dent still endures a catastrophic injury. In the end Batman isn’t fully able to overcome the environmental conflict of time, distance, and explosives.
Personal - The Joker taunts him during their interrogation scene, and Batman loses self-control. The Joker reveals the information not because Batman beat it out of him, but because that was the plan all along.
Internal - Batman is left questioning whether he should continue trying to protect Gotham, or whether his further efforts will only make things worse.
Let’s finish by considering conflict’s quietly brooding cousin, tension.
Think of tension as the promise of conflict.
You’re creating a scenario that very well could, and by rights should, lead to conflict.
Deploying and controlling tension in a scene is an incredible tool for a writer. But ultimately you have to pay off the tension you’ve generated with some form of conflict.
And remember, conflict has to cost.
Here’s a boilerplate example:
Our protagonist - let’s call her Jane - breaks into her boss’ house one night to steal some important paperwork.
Her boss arrives home unexpectedly. He takes his shoes and jacket off. Pours a drink. Potters around in the kitchen. Oblivious to the intruder upstairs.
Immediate tension. Why? Because we’re anticipating an explosive confrontation - conflict. You can draw this scene out for as long as you need. Toying with us, dangling the prospect of the moment when Jane and her boss finally cross paths.
But what if your story doesn’t allow for that? What if your plot can’t absorb Jane getting caught sneaking around by her boss? You’ll have to find another source of conflict to pay off that tension.
Let’s look at the rings of conflict, and the toll they might exact.
Environmental conflict - the desk drawer Jane needs to access is locked. She has to jimmy it open with a knife.
Cost - she slices her hand open and has to explain her injury at work the next day, invoking unwelcome suspicion.
Personal conflict - she gets a phone call from her friend in the middle of the break-in, begging her to abandon the whole terrible, unethical plan and come home.
Cost - Collateral damage to her friendship, eroded trust and goodwill. Paranoia that her friend could potentially land her in trouble by confessing everything they know.
Internal conflict - She’s faced with a personal dilemma. Get what she’s come for, or acknowledge that (as she knows in her gut) this is a terrible plan. Not just unethical but illegal.
Cost - She leaves without getting the crucial paperwork. Or she does get the paperwork, and has to confront the difficult fact that she’s willing to do bad things to achieve her goal (bonus points if this is your central dramatic question).
So: to create tension, conjure a scenario that promises conflict.
To create conflict, set two activated characters on a collision course. Even if one character is a fence. Or a drawer.
To get the most out of your story, use the three rings of conflict.
To resolve conflict in a satisfying way, make sure your character pays a toll before moving on.
Next week, I’ll talk about what to do when part of your story has no real conflict whatsoever.
I’ll leave you with a couple of things.
Firstly another article by Cole Haddon. I shared one of his last week, and I think this one does a similarly great job of exploring the realities of getting a script across the line (or not).
What I find interesting about Cole is that he’s clearly written and sold many scripts. He’s an established presence in the industry with plenty of war stories and successes under his belt.
And yet to look at his IMBD, he has barely more than a single 2013 season of Dracula to his name. This article goes some way to explaining why that’s commonplace.
It highlights one of the fascinating (and frustrating) aspects of a career as a screenwriter: barely any of your work actually makes it out to the public.
Anything that does get produced tends to be the tip of the iceberg when it comes to your actual workload and portfolio. There are busy, well-paid, widely respected screenwriters who’ve had nothing made, ever.
I can write about this aspect of the industry in more detail, if you’re interested in reading about it.
Which brings me to my last point. A quick favour.
There are more of you arriving by the week. I’m privileged and grateful for that. And I’d really like to learn a little bit about you so I know I’m writing what you want to read.
The link below will take you to a Google form. It’s four quick multiple choice questions. If you could find thirty seconds to answer them, you’d be doing me a great service and you’ll be making The Script better for everyone who reads it.
Thank you in advance.
Till next Tuesday, go get after it.